


Sea-Flower

by Soledad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Moriquendi, The Haradrim, Umbar, arranged marriage (sort of), unlikely romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6196891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Decades before the Ring War, decades before Captain Thorongil would come to Gondor, trouble brews in Umbar, the Third Realm in Exile. The Consuls are desperately seeking a way out - how would their efforts influence the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth? Started for the 10th anniversary of the Edhellond group and gone on... and on... and on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sea-Flower

**Author's Note:**

> The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Andrahar belongs to Isabeau of Greenlea and is used with her generous consent. His father, Isfhandijár, and the rest of their family are mine, however, as is their entire culture, created after the template of Ancient Persia.
> 
> The history of Umbar and the peculiarities of its society are based on Lalaith’s article “The Third Realm in Exile”… more or less. I added my own twists here, so the end results are quite different. In some places, I consciously chose a point of view opposite to that of Lalaith’s, just because it served the story better.
> 
> Agannâlo means Death-Shadow in Adûnaic; I decided that would be the name the Umbari would mention Mordor by. Urîd Êphalak is supposed to mean Far-Away Mountain and is a name for Orodruin in Adûnaic, which I have tried to create based on the Ardalambion website’s data… whether it is grammatically correct or not is another question.

The people of Gondor liked to declare that Umbar was the oldest and most wicked city of the Realm. A Corsair stronghold full of renegades and Haradrim bandits, they said. A centre of dark cults where Sauron – and before him Morgoth – had been served willingly and most ruthlessly, ever since the Númenórean seafarers had begun establishing landing and trading points along the southern coast of Middle-earth – small settlements that eventually grew into cruel vice-kingdoms.

Those kingdoms and strongholds had left many rumours in the legends of Men of which Elves knew nothing – it was only known among the Wise that at least three of the Nazgûl had been recruited out of them. Only Umbar had, however, acquired a special position in history and made a name for itself – and _not_ a good one, at least as far as Gondor was concerned.

As always with rumours, all this was both very true and utterly false at the same time.

To begin with, Umbar was _not_ part of the South-kingdom; had never truly been, not even at the times when Gondor had managed to besiege it or take it by force. Neither was it merely a city; it was a sovereign realm of its own, the inland boundaries of which had once extended as far as to most of the length of the River Harnen and the Ephel Dúath on the North, as well as the edge of Khand on the East; and they had included the desert inland area of Harondor, once the southernmost province of Gondor, before a great plague would have stripped it from its inhabitants.

In these days, nearing the end of the third millennium of the Third Age of Arda, Umbar had somewhat fallen from its ancient grace. The Realm that had once – successfully – competed the fledgling Gondor for power, had been reoccupied and rebuilt under Haradric sovereignty… which mostly meant that the Consuls of the Realm had to serve the interests of the Southron bound of independent realms, mostly by becoming Corsairs again, in the old, cruel tradition of the Castamirioni, although on a considerably lower level.

Unlike the supreme high-sea galleons of Númenor (or later those of the Ship-Kings of Gondor), their fleet consisted merely of dromunds, and ships of great draught with many oars – one hundred of those in two banks, in fact, which were served by slaves – and with black sails that would belly in the slightest breeze.

However, these were keel-less ships, restricted to coastal drift and unable to cope with the rough waters of Belegaer. Still, Umbar possessed the greatest fleet in Middle-earth, and few other vessels could hope to face their warships – or outrun them – in these days. Only the proud Swanships of Dol Amroth, built with the help of the Nimîr stood a chance; them and those of the Nimîr themselves, mooring in the Elf-haven of Edhellond that lay in the Bay of Belfalas, above Dol Amroth, where the River Morthond reached the Sea.

As the power of Agannâlo had begun to gather strength and influence again, and even the Urîd Êphalak had burst into flame anew, Umbar had fallen under the domination of Zigûr’s dark servants. The people of Gondor said that the Corsairs had long ceased to fear the might of the South-kingdom, and they had allied themselves with the Enemy, their lore-masters seeking to gain evil knowledge from the Dark Lord.

Which, once again, was very true and yet utterly wrong.

Yea, they _had_ allied themselves with the Haradric realms, under whose overlordship they were nominally standing. And there _were_ many dark cults and accursed temples in Umbarlond, the actual city, also known as the Haven of Umbar. From the fire-worshipping of Bakshir to the snake-cult of Khambaluk and the animalistic superstitions of Zipangu, every Haradric belief had taken up residence in the Bazaar and the haven areas. But the true dark cult of Númenor, the one that had led to the Downfall of Westernesse, the one including black sorcery and cruel rituals and even the burning of Men on Zigûr’s altars, was no longer present in the Realm… at least not officially.

‘Twas the _unofficial_ presence that had worried the Consuls of the Realm lately. And that was also the reason that brought them together in _Zadan’n Abrazân_ , the _House of the Steadfast_ , the ancient fortress of Umbarlond: to discuss the immediate problem, the likely ramifications and how they might find a way out of the trap… if that was at all possible.

‘Twas the year 2968, in the Third Age of Arda, and – save from the occasional Corsair raid along Gondor’s coasts – Umbar had known relative peace for more than eighty years. At least where Gondor was considered. It had been less than fifteen years since the inland areas had been severely raided by the forces of Bakshir. The second-largest Haradric realm had even besieged Umbarlond itself, and it had taken First Consul Herucalmo great personal sacrifices – namely to send his own daughter to the _kha-kan_ ’s bed as a concubine – to placate the enraged Haradric warlord and persuade him to take his booty and go home.

That had led to a lasting peace between the two realms… at least until lately. For rumours had reached Lord Herucalmo that _Kha-kan_ Isfhandijár had died in the previous year and his legitimate sons had driven out and killed all his concubines and their children. Which meant that Rothinzil was most likely dead, and they no longer had a supporter in the _kha-kan_ ’s house – whoever might be filling that particular office right now. That also meant that Umbar as a whole and Lord Herucalmo himself needed another strong ally to better their chances against their Haradric overlords.

He had invited Second Consul Manwendil and his lady to the _Zadan’n Abrazân_ , as there they had no reason to fear spies. While the city was showing a definite Southron flair, due to the long exposure to the various Haradric realms, the _Zadan’n Abrazân_ was an ancient relic. A fortress raised in the late Second Age in the characteristically monolithic style of Númenor. It had been hewn into the living rock of the stone coast and stood partially in the water of the Bay. The keep itself was a hundred and thirty-five feet high and had a diameter of almost a hundred feet. The cranellated stone wall encircling it rose as high as eighty feet, and eight round, stocky towers, each of them ninety-feet high and crowned with a steel cap, protected it.

Four millennia had the _Zadan’n Abrazân_ lasted already, and aside from adding a few comforts of more recent times, it had not been changed all that much. Its stone grey and withered with age, it was still the same unconquerable fortress. No enemy could ever set foot beyond its defences, unless by treachery. And no-one would even _think_ of betraying the First Consul, unless they had a death wish.

Like most Umbarian nobles, Lord Herucalmo, too, had a townhouse in the city. Yet he preferred the keep of the _Zadan’n Abrazân_ , not wishing to be reminded of the death of his wife and the loss of his daughter all the time. The townhouse had been _their_ realm; now it was but an empty shell.

Besides, Lord Herucalmo was the one responsible for defences and warfare, while Second Consul Manwendil was supposed to care for trade negotiations and civilian affairs. It had been time-honoured tradition since the days of the Ancient Realm that Umbar would be ruled by a pair of consuls; mostly, yet not exclusively men of high birth and standing, as Ancient Númenórean right allowed a female child to follow her father in power if she was the firstborn.

These nobly-born rulers counted back their ancestry to the _King’s Men_ of the Second Age, the ones called the Black Númenóreans by their Gondorian cousins. Never had one of them proclaimed him- or herself as the King or the Queen of Umbar, even though they’d considered themselves the true representatives of the last legal King of Númenor, regarding the Heirs of Nimruzîr (Elendil) as usurpers. Legend even spoke of some surviving relatives of the Line of Elros (or Ar-Gimilzôr, as they preferred to mention their ancestor) among the local nobles who claimed the governship.

Whether _that_ had been true or not, no-one could tell all those millennia later. In any case, the overlords of the Haven had created a system that of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor not unlike, claiming to rule “in the King's absence”. By the King they meant Ar-Pharazôn the Golden, of course, whose rule they glorified, enshrouding the dark events of the past and magnifying the power and greatness of Westernesse in memory. Oddly enough, this attitude had led to the birth of a cult that foretold Ar-Pharazôn’s triumphant return from the West. Followers of that cult expected the King to reclaim the throne of the unified Reams in Exile – all three of them – in some distant future.

The current rules of the Realm, Lords Herucalmo and Manwendil, did not subscribe to this messianistic cult; nor did they join to that of the Death Eater, the revival of which they had watched with some consternation for quite some time by now. They were warlords and merchants, respectively, and did not want to tighten the leash binding them to Agannâlo – or to the Haradric realms – more than it would be inevitable. They had to consider their moves very carefully, though, for the number of Zigûr’s spies had been slowly yet steadily increasing in the recent years. They could almost literally feel the iron grip of Zigûr tightening around them. ‘Twas high time to seek out alternate routes that would not bind them quite so tightly to the fate of Agannâlo.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
A discrete knock on the Great Hall’s door woke Lord Herucalmo from his dark musings. Master Indilzar, his castellan, stepped in and bowed respectfully.

“Lord Manwendil and his lady wife have arrived, my Lord,” he murmured. Herucalmo nodded.

“Let them be escorted here and see that refreshments are brought to the Hall,” he ordered. “Where is my son?”

“Young Master Caliondo is on his way home,” answered the castellan. “The _Gimilnitîr_ has sailed into the Haven less than an hour ago. The young master will be in a presentable state shortly.”

“Good,” said Herucalmo. “We shall need his insight; and that of Captain Atanalcar. Send them in as soon as they arrive. Oh, and find me Nimir; that cursed Elf is getting harder to get hold on with each passing day. I want him here as well.”

“Certainly, my Lord,” Master Indilzar bowed deeply and backed off.

A moment later the doors of the Greet Hall were tossed open and the castellan announced the noble visitors.

“Lord Manwendil, Second Consul of Umbar, and his wife, the Lady Avradî.”

In came a richly clad couple that would have easily fitted among the noblest courtiers of Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth… both by their appearance and their rich garment. Lord Manwendil, scion of one of the oldest families of the Realm, was easily as tall as his host, albeit a little softer around his midriff, due to a more comfortable like that he led. Yet he could not have denied his Númenórean origins, even if he wanted. In his early seventies, he still barely looked a day older than fifty, his black hair, shorn above his shoulders, not yet touched by grey. His face nobly featured, even though those features had become somewhat slack with age lately, were dominated by a pair of keen grey eyes that saw everything and judged everyone, always looking out for opportunities that he could use to his advantage.

His lady, nearly twenty years his junior, was a classical Dúnadan beauty: tall, raven-haired and grey-eyed like her husband, with pale skin like mother-of-pearl and even, slightly sharp features. Her ancestors had been one of the blackest of the Black Númenóreans - after all, what other family would have had the cheek to give their daughter the name of the Lady of the Stars herself? – and she could count her ancestors back to a Castamirian female line and had family ties in Pelargir, too; close ones.

As much as the nobles of Gondor disliked admitting it, there _were_ still intricate networks of family and business ties between the old families in Pelargir and Umbar, respectively, despite the millennia-long contest of the two cities for maritime and trade supremacy. In his own way, Pelargir was almost as old – and in certain aspects every bit as wicked – as Umbar was said to be, and their old families were blood-conscious enough to intermarry, instead of further diluting the Dúnadan bloodlines by mingling with lesser people. Ever since the Castamirian period, Umbar had been trying to keep the bloodlines as pure as possible, in direct opposition to earlier practices.

Unfortunately, this had led to a great deal of inbreeding, and as a consequence, many ancient families became childless in the recent generations. Lord Manwendil’s House was one of those in which the Númenórean heritage had grown too weak to be handed down to the next generation. Lord Herucalmo’s line was one of the few fortunate ones still capable of producing heirs, which had earned him additional respect in the noblest circles.

This fact, however, did not make him respect his fellow consul and his lady any less. ‘Twas not their fault, after all; though it was their great personal tragedy. Thus Lord Herucalmo greeted his guests with the utmost respect and offered them seats at the far end of the Great Hall, where no-one could have eavesdropped on them.

His trusted manservant, Ulbar, came with refreshments. Ulbar was an elderly man who had grown up with his lord and was of Dúnadan heritage himself, although not nobly born. Coming from a lesser line, he showed definite sings of aging, although he was several years younger than his master. Herucalmo had trusted very few people in his long life, but he did trust Ulbar unconditionally; and rightly so.

The elderly servant offered the guests sharp, yellow wine, imported from Belfalas, and some Haradric sweetmeats that had become very fashionable in the recent decades. The Second Consul and his lady accepted the refreshments graciously, and for a while they discussed with Herucalmo trade negotiations, tidings from far-away lands and local gossip; such small matters that were, nonetheless, important for those who ruled the Realm. They _needed_ to know what was going on both within and beyond the borders, so that they would be prepared for everything and could act accordingly.

Finally, when they had nearly run out of topics, Master Indilzar entered again and cleared his throat discretely.

“Captain Atanalcar and Master Caliondo have arrived, khôr nîn,” he said, stepping aside to allow said people to enter.

In came two men who could hardly be more different. Caliondo, Lord Herucalmo’s heir and only son, was in his early thirties – although, in typical Dúnadan fashion, he looked considerably younger. A tall, broad-shouldered, coldly handsome young man, with the thick, raven black hair (shorn above his shoulders in Gondorian fashion to blend in more easily when visiting the ports of the South-kingdom) and the keen, sea-grey eyes of those of Númenórean descent, albeit tinted with just a little green. His long torso was put in a sleeveless surcoat of heavy, figured silk brocade, so deep blue in its hue that it almost looked black. Under that he was wearing black breeches and a bag-sleeved shirt of raw, undyed silk. His short locks were held together by a narrow circlet of some white metal that looked like silver but was, in fact, made of _mithril_ – an old family heirloom, war-booty from Gondor and worn by the firstborn of their House all the time.

The other man – the Captain of the Haven of Umbar by title, yet the admiral of their Fleet in truth – was past forty and clearly had some desert blood in his veins. He was thin like a Haradric blade, yet strong, tall and muscular, as if the hardships of a live spent upon the Sea and constant exercise had left none of the softer parts of the human form, reducing his whole body to brawn, bones and sinews. His high features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt into a deep tan, almost to black, by constant exposure to the Southern sun upon the Sea. His keen, piercing obsidian eyes told in every glance a tale of difficulties subdued and dangers dared. A deep, diagonal scar on his brow gave additional sternness to his hawkish face and a sinister expression to one of his eyes, which had been injured on the same occasion. His vision, too, was slightly distorted on that eye; not that such small obstacles would lessen his efficiency in any way. His blue-black hair was braided away from his face; the braids held together on the top of his head by a broad, golden clasp, making him look a bit as people would expect a Corsair captain to look.

Nonetheless, Captain Atanalcar, son of a local nobleman and a Haradric princess, was much more than a mere pirate. He was the third most powerful man in Umbar, outranking even Caliondo, who was, after all, being groomed to take over as First Consul one day. Accordingly, he had the same rich attire as all the lords present, only in sea grey and black, and he even wore a knee-length shirt of the finest – and strongest – chain mail the best Haradric weaponsmiths could produce under his surcoat.

Acknowledging the Captain’s rank and importance, Lord Herucalmo rose from his seat to greet the man – and his own son and heir – properly.

“Linakhahê, bârî ’n ni, ka...” he began in High Adûnaic, that differed greatly from the bastardized version spoken by the common folk on the streets, that had been much mixed with Haradric during the recent centuries; then he interrupted himself and looked around in annoyance. “Where is that cursed Elf again?”

“I am here, Master,” a soft, lyrical voice answered, and a black-clad figure stepped forth from a shadowy corner.

It was a male Elf, almost a head shorter than his master, distinguished by the large, slanted eyes and elegantly shaped, pointy ears of his immortal kind. Yet those eyes were not grey as one would have routinely expected from an Elf, but coal black; and while his face was pale and Elven-fair, his features were sharp and angular. He wore his long, raven-black hair in a topknot, which emphasized the leaf-shape of his ears. He did not need to cover them; he could blend with the shadows like no-one else.

“Must you always lurk in the shadow like a ghost?” groused Lord Herucalmo. As much as it had proved advantageous to have an Elf oath-bound to serve his family, it unnerved him sometimes how the creature practically existed in the twilight.

“Is that not what I am?” replied the Elf with a faint, wintry smile that made all Men present shiver. “A ghost of your House’s past, doomed to haunt these halls ‘til the end of Arda?”

Indeed, he had served the family for over two hundred years. Which was another advantage of having an Elf in one’s service: they did not die, unless killed, nor did they grow old or lost their strength. And not even death would have freed this particular Elf from eternal servitude. The nature of his oath, reinforced by sorcery, had been such that even his disembodied spirit would be bound to his master’s House, until released from his bond.

This was a truth well known by everyone present, which usually made the noble visitors quite uncomfortable around the Elf; a reaction Lord Herucalmo counted on. It was one of the reasons why he wanted the Elf to be there; it never harmed to remind even one’s closest allies where the true power lay. Now that he had reached the desired effect, he signalled his bondsman to withdraw, and the Elf merged with the shadows noiselessly again.

“Now, perchance we can begin,” said the First Consul. “More than eighty years have passed since the troops of my grandsire had failed to permanently annex the desert inlands of Harondor to the Realm. As a result, we have had our relative freedom from Agannâlo; clearly, Zigûr no longer considered us a competition for his plans against the West. However, it seems that the Shadow has begun to grow in Agannâlo again, stretching out over the realms of the South – including ours. There have been sightings of Orcs along the southern fences of the Ephel Dúath; and while we do not mind them bothering Gondor – in truth, we encourage it, as it strengthens our own position – we do _not_ want them on _our_ borders. Not even in the deserted lands _beyond_ those borders.”

“But why would Zigûr want to threaten us by his fell servants?” asked Lord Manwendil in confusion. “What possible quarrel could he have with us? We have ever served his purposes; ever since our great city has been rebuilt.”

“Perchance he is not satisfied with our eagerness to serve him,” said the Lady Avradî thoughtfully. “You cannot deny, my lords, that while allying ourselves with Agannâlo, we have first and foremost served our own interests. And as our Realm is the one that once witnessed Zigûr’s defeat and humiliation by our own King, we never worshipped him the way those superstitious Haradric barbarians do.”

“Save from the Cult of the Death Eater,” commented Captain Atanalcar dryly. Lady Avradî nodded.

“True. And I believe the Cult is receiving ever-growing support from Agannâlo itself, as a way to infiltrate the Realm and take over from the inside.”

Lord Herucalmo raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Whatever makes you believe _that_ , my lady?”

Lady Avradî smiled, her smile cold and cruel. “You are not the only one with eyes and ears… and other senses, my lord Consul. You have your Dark Elf, and I… I have my cats. I am certain that you, too, have heard the name that is being whispered when speech turns to the Cult,” she lowered her voice ‘til it could scarcely be heard. With hardly more than a breath, she formed it. “The name of Herumor?”

Lord Herucalmo swallowed hard, unable to answer right away. He just stared at her with amazement and more than a little fear. It was not so as if he would lack the courage of his forefathers who had sailed with Ar-Pharazôn the Golden to fight –and defeat – Zigûr, but the stark terror of the Cult sat deep in his bones. _Everyone_ in their right minds feared the Cult and what it would mean; more so those familiar with the terrible events before the Downfall.

“I see that you have,” said the Lady Avradî with a grim smile. “And you seem astonished that _I have_ heard it also.”

“Quite astonished indeed,” replied Lord Herucalmo, finding his voice after the first shock. “How has this name reached you, my Lady? For I have the keen eyes and ears of my Elf who walks in the shadows like a ghost; and while your cats may be able to walk in dark places as well, they cannot master Man’s speech and could not have, therefore, told you that name.”

“You forget that Queen Berúthiel was not the only daughter of Anadûnê who could bind certain beasts to her will and see through their eyes,” she answered. True, there are but a few of us left in these lesser days; but those who _are_ still there, we can still use the secret arts to our advantage.”

“The Dark Arts, you mean,” muttered the First Consul.

Lady Avradî shrugged nonchalantly. “You may see them as dark; but they are older than the Realm itself, and they have little to naught to do with the Cult.”

“If you say so,” said young Lord Caliondo sarcastically.

The lady gave him a chilling look that could have frozen the fire chamber of the Urîd Êphalak over. “I say so, for that is the truth. Stay quiet in the presence of thine elders, youngling when thou know not whereof thou speaketh about.”

Caliondo was about to give an angry – and perchance unwise – answer, but his father stopped him, with a raised hand.

“What have you learnt?” asked the First Consul.

“Very little, alas,” the lady admitted. “Little more than the name itself has reached me; for the matter has been kept as secret as cunning can contrive.”

“ _Whose_ cunning?” asked her husband, the Second Consul, quietly, his face deathly pale with fear. The lady shrugged, as if she would not be bothered by the tidings at all; but those who knew her well could see that she was, in truth, afraid.

“Why, those who have heard the call of the name, of, course,” she said. “They are not many yet, to set against the rightful leaders of the Realm, but the number is growing. Not all are content with the last eight decades of relative peace, and fewer now are afraid of the powers of Gondor, now that the strength of he South-kingdom is waning. Tales of our former greatness are re-told, and the wish to reach that greatness again is voiced time and again.”

Lord Manwendil shook his head, dejected. “The fools,” he said. “The inconsiderate fools. They would go to outright war with Gondor, based on a call coming from the Lord of Lies, using up our own Realm to serve the interests of Agannâlo. Do you know any of those who have listened to the call?”

Lord Herucalmo shook his head. “Not I. All _I have_ heard is that certain people – clad in black, hooded cloaks – meet in dark alleys sometimes; and they would go to the ruins of the old Temple of Mbelekôro, where it once had been raised around the end of the Second Age.”

“That cursed place still exists?” asked Caliondo in surprise.

His father nodded. “The Temple itself may be in ruins, but its foundations still stand. They have been forged by dark sorcery, by Zigûr himself, when he usurped leadership over the Ancient Realm; they say that – just like Barad-dûr – the Temple cannot be destroyed. Not as long as Zigûr still dwells in Middle-earth, and now that he is gaining back his strength, the Cult is rearing its ugly head again.”

“Only that this time, ‘tis not Mbelekôro in whose name they perform their dark rites,” added the Lady Avradî, “but Zigûr himself. _He is_ the Death Eater now, whom Herumor feels the need to feed with lives.”

She paused, letting the ramifications sink in. All those present (even the Elf, through his long acquaintance with Lord Herucalmo’s House) knew what the Cult of Mbelekôro had been like, back in Anadûnê before its downfall. They all knew of the mighty temple Zigûr had caused to be built upon the hill in the midst of the city of the Adûnâim, Armenelos the Golden; and of the altar of fire in its centre, from where a great smoke had gone up all the time, blackening the domed silver roof of the Temple. And of the spelling of blood with torment and great wickedness, with which Men had made sacrifices to Mbelekôro that he should release them from Death.

The same thing had been repeated, albeit on a much smaller scale, in Umbarlond, during the centuries after the Downfall, while the great lords Herumor and Fuinur had ruled not Umbar alone but also the neighbouring Haradric realms, in Zigûr’s name. And the mere fact that the name Herumor had been whispered in dark alleys again was truly black news for all those who wished to keep Umbar an independent sovereignty on its own, instead of the doormat of Zigûr, or simply one of the Haradric realms.

“Is there word about people disappearing?” asked Lord Herucalmo.

“There has been some small disquiet, down at the Haven,” replied Captain Atanalcar, whose duty it was to know about such things. “A few fishermen have disappeared, and also a small ship of the Fleet. Perchance ‘tis just peace making things slack. They might have gone off on some ploy of their own, without leave and without a pilot, and they might have drowned. After all, these coasts are not safe for the unskilled.”

“Yet you believe not that it was so,” said the First Consul. It was not a question.

The Captain of the Haven shook his head grimly. “Nay, I do not. Those men were _not_ unskilled. The fishermen who have gone missing grew up on the Sea, and the vessel was one of my best scouts. Besides, there have been no storms off the coasts for quite a while.”

“You believe then they were taken,” said Lord Herucalmo darkly. “Taken and used to feed the Death Eater.”

Atanalcar nodded. “And to weaken the Fleet at the same time, knowing of their loyalty to us. I fear that further attacks against fishermen and sailors can be expected. The Fleet is our only true strength; without it, we are all but helpless.”

“Then we need a way to strengthen the Fleet,” said Lord Manwendil, “while trying to figure out who is behind the renewal of the Cult.”

“That is not hard to guess,” pointed out Caliondo impatiently. “’Twas Zigûr who has ever forced the Cult upon us.”

“True,” agreed the Lady Avradî, “but he would hardly leave his dark tower to do this personally. This Herumor person, whoever he might be, is the key to the Cult. We must find him and remove him from the game board, ere it is too late.”

“If we can,” corrected Lord Herucalmo. “While he does bear a Man’s name – and one that once belonged to a great lord – he might be something different entirely.”

“You mean a Nazgûl?” asked Lord Manwendil, his smooth, fleshy countenance suddenly sickly white with fear. The First Consul shrugged, his face hard and grim.

“’Twould not be the first time, would it? To find out the truth, we need to infiltrate the Cult, though.”

While the others were thinking the same, they shivered hearing the idea put into words nonetheless. The poor wretch chosen for _that_ task would be doomed from the beginning.

“Send in your Elf,” suggested Atanalcar.

“I cannot,” replied Lord Herucalmo. “They would not tolerate an Elf among them. Not even a Dark Elf. They’d recognize him and slay him; and he is of no use for me as a ghost. Nay, I have a better idea,” he hit the small bronze bell hanging from a window frame. “Send me in Rasheed,” he ordered old Ulbar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The man following his summons was the captain of his guards; the bastard son of an Umbari nobleman of _very_ old blood and a Haradric slave girl. An unusually tall man with a heavy bone structure, long, muscular arms and an arrogant bearing that revealed that he had not built those arms by doing lowly labour but by extensive weapons training; his stature was that of a swordsman.

His hair, close-cropped like that of a slave, although he was none, had the colour of blackened corn silk and looked even darker around his tanned, hawkish features. His crystalline blue, nearly transparent eyes watched everything at once, seeking out potential dangers that might threaten his master. His mother had been from the desert lands, the ones beyond even Khambaluk, which explained his strange eyes; in everything else, he bore a strong resemblance to his sire who had never acknowledged him. The blood-consciousness, brought to Umbar by the Castamirioni, was still strong in the old families, and bastards were, as a rule, cast out.

On the other hand, the blood of such bastards was still deemed good enough for them to be highly sought after as personal guards and shield-mates for noblemen… usually ones on unfriendly terms with the family that had rejected them. Which was how Rasheed had come to be taken into Lord Herucalmo’s service.

However, his status within the First Consul’s household was an exceptional one, and the fact that he did not bow or prostrate himself in any other way servants would be supposed to, clearly showed that. He simply – though respectfully enough – inclined his head in Lord Herucalmo’s direction, ignoring everyone else in the room… even the Heir of the House.

“My Lord,” he said; his voice was deep and rough as it is often heard among desert people, though not this near the Sea, “how may I serve you?”

“In a way no-one else could, as always,” replied the First Consul. “I am sending you into mortal danger… and expect you to come back unharmed.”

A faint, self-confident smile appeared on that handsome face and was gone almost in the same moment.

“I thrive on danger, my Lord,” he said, “as you know.”

Lord Herucalmo nodded. “I do; or else I would not have chosen you for this task. I want you to sneak into the Cult of the Death Eater for me. They are stirring again, in dark corners where Ûrî never shines; and I would know what they are planning, so that we can hit them, and hit them hard, ere they would grow too strong.”

Any other man would have blanched with terror given such a task and begged to be spared. Rasheed, however, simply nodded and turned his attention to the details at once.

“How am I to find them?” he asked. “And how am I to make them believe that I would wish to join them? ‘Tis known all across the Realm that you do not look at the Cult fondly, my Lord… and that I am but your extended hand.”

“Nimir will help you to find their gathering place,” answered Lord Herucalmo. “He has been watching the Cult for me for quite some time. As for making them believe… we shall start rumours that you have been unhappy with your status in my household for years; that you despise the ways I run thing here. That you believe me to have grown weak and lazy and over-confidant. Your skills are well-known in the city; people would try to win you over as soon as the rumours begin to spread.”

Rasheed pulled an unhappy face. He did not like his loyalties being questioned, not even if the disguise served his master; and even less did he like to work with the Dark Elf, who, frankly, made his skin crawl. But he could not choose the tasks assigned to him; that was the right of his master, by whom he was owned, body, soul and blood. He might not be a slave by name, but he had sworn an oath every bit as binding as that of the Elf… with the significant difference that he had done so voluntarily. Thus the thought of disobeying or even protesting against the task – against _any_ task given him by his master – had not even occurred to him.

“I shall do as my Lord orders,” he said simply.

Lord Herucalmo nodded. He had expected nothing less from his chief guard; nor deemed him needful to promise Rasheed any kind of reward.

“That is well,” he said. “Now, be gone, the two of you, and discuss strategies. I shall expect your plan by the hour before sunset. See that you have one by then.”

He dismissed them with an authoritative gesture. Rasheed inclined his head and left, the Elf following him like a shadow. A black and ominous one.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Having dealt with his servants, Lord Herucalmo turned his attention back to his guests and allies.

“That is one thing hopefully dealt with, soon,” he said. “However, it appears to me that we might have a struggle on two fronts at our hands, soon.”

The others looked at him with a confused frown at first. Then Captain Atanalcar realized what their host was talking about and nodded in grim understanding.

“Bakshir,” he said, without elaborating. Lord Herucalmo nodded.

“Bakshir indeed. As you know, _Kha-kan_ Isfhandijár died last year; slain in some local battle, protecting the borders of the realm against nomadic raiders from the Eastern Desert. As far as we know, _Padisákh_ Tahamtan has chosen his firstborn, Bakhtijár, to step into his place. As it is custom among the Hiung-nu, the legitimate sons of the dead lord have most likely driven out and slain the concubines and bastards of their sire. I must therefore accept that my beloved daughter is dead, as she was war bounty and not a proper wife. That I had not heard of her or of her little son ever since the reports of Isfhandijár’s dead can only mean that they have both been killed.”

“What a terrible loss,” murmured the Lady Avradî. Yearning for children one could not become was bad enough; having had one’s children killed was a hundred times worse.

“And not for our friend only,” added Lord Manwendil grimly. “As Isfhandijár was very fond of the Lady Rothinzil, he favoured Umbar for her sake. He had the _padisákh_ ’s ear as well, and he also spoke of Umbar with preference. His sons, young, power-hungry and fired on by their jealous mothers, would do the exact opposite. Umbar’s position against the Haradric realms will suffer if the one holding the overlordship turns against us.”

“That is what I fear, too,” agreed Lord Herucalmo. “And that is why we need to look out for other strong allies.”

“What do you have on your mind, my Lord Consul?” asked Captain Atanalcar. “The second-strongest realm would be Khambaluk; but my mother’s people traditionally look towards Far-Harad when it comes to seek out alliances.”

“Neither would they be able to hurry to our aid when needs must be,” added Caliondo thoughtfully. “For that, Khambaluk simply lies too far from our borders.”

“That is very true, on both occasions,” said Lord Herucalmo. “We need an ally that is strong, can move considerable forces when in need, and can be found in the close neighbourhood.”

“I fear the only realm that could match all those criteria would be Gondor,” Lord Manwendil pointed out. “And I doubt very much that we could ally ourselves with our arch enemy of several millennia.”

“Not with Gondor,” said his lady wife as sudden realization hit her. “But perchance Dol Amroth. That _could_ work. Dor-en-Ernil might be a province of Gondor, but the Prince of Dol Amroth is an independent monarch with a demesne of his own; _and_ they have the strongest fleet, save ours. It would be a good match…”

“… _if_ we could persuade Prince Angelimir to break his oath of fealty to the Steward of Gondor and ally himself with his chief rival,” finished Lord Manwendil. “I do not think that would be possible, though. Prince Angelimir is old; yet he is no fool. And the House of Dol Amroth has no reason to look at us with friendship. After all, several of its Princes have been slain in battle against our people. Angelimir will never agree to such an alliance.”

“Not if we _ask_ him,” said Lord Herucalmo in agreement. “However, I am planning a different approach… one along family lines.”

“Oh,” the eyes of the Lady Avradî began to gleam. “I see what you mean, my Lord Consul.”

“Well, _I_ do not,” groused Lord Manwendil. “Pray speak clearly, Herucalmo. I find that I tire of your games.”

“Prince Angelimir, as you have said yourself, is _old_ ,” explained the First Consul. “More than a hundred; and that is a high age, even for _his_ family. He still holds the title in name, yet the real power lies in the hands of his son and heir, Prince Adrahil. A man in his prime, an excellent warlord and diplomat… with _two_ daughters in marriageable age, while I have a son who has not yet taken a wife.”

“And you believe Adrahil would be amendable to marry off any daughter of his to Caliondo?” Lord Manwendil shook his head in disbelief. “I do not think he would willingly do that.”

“Mayhap not,” allowed Lord Herucalmo. “But again, I do not intend to _ask_ him, either,” he glanced at the Captain of the Haven. “Captain Atanalcar, this is something the two of us will have to discuss in great detail.”

A rakish grin split the tanned face of the adventurous Sea lord as he contemplated the possible meaning of that.

“My Lord Consul, I am at your disposal,” he declared.


End file.
